


The Comfort of Wild Things

by Chronicler



Series: A Glimpse [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Accompanying Photo Montage, Alpha/Omega, American Wolves, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst and Romance, Bestiality, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Biting, Bodice-Ripper, British Character, British English, Comfort/Angst, Courtship, Desperation, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Dominance, Falling In Love, Feels, Forbidden, Forbidden Love, Fur, Historical, Historical References, Historical Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Knotting, Licking, Loneliness, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mountains, Mounting, Old-Fashioned, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Third Person Limited, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Pack Politics, Pansexual Character, Penis Size, Period-Typical Queerphobia, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Purple Prose, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Rimming, Romance, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Scenting, Scratching, Size Difference, Size Kink, Stroking, Submission, True Mates, Watersports, Western, Wilderness, Wilderness Survival, Wolf Pack, Wolves, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: Western historical romance between an immigrant searching for the American Old West and a wolf:Rejected by his family for being different, unnatural, Isaac Jeremiah Latham leaves England for a new life of adventure in the Americas. However, he finds life across the ocean no better. Beaten by the other settlers and forced to leave the wagon train, he wanders the wilderness, lost, hungry, and alone with winter setting in.When a pack of wolves out hunting under the moon begins to track him, he thinks his time is up. It almost comes as a relief. But the pack fight over him, their victorious leader bringing him food, leading him to shelter.Samson, Isaac calls the big, powerful wolf whose intent gaze never seems to leave him. And, slowly, Isaac realises why he’s been brought here, what Samson wants from him. And he finds he doesn't mind nearly as much as he would have expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this months ago for someone special who asked for a bestiality story. This is the most all-out romance and erotica I've ever written. Due to its characters, it's a subversion of romance tropes. I just went with it. Constructive comments would be appreciated. Please read the tags for warnings. Note: I just edited the full story yet again.

Outside the cave, snow fell. Beyond the white, the greyed blue of the sky was blotted out till none was left.

But inside Isaac had managed to light a small fire with sparks from rocks he’d struck together, the damp kindle smoking and crackling as it burned. The orange glow of it flickered across the jagged, arched stone that surrounded him till it disappeared into blackness deep inside the tunnel.

He shivered as he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his scrawny arms around them, coughing as the fire threw up a plume of black smoke. And he wondered, wondered how things could go so wrong, how he could have ended up in so dismal a place.

His parents had ordered him to leave their home, their village, knew he was different. Told him to go before he shamed them further, after the incident with the pastor’s son. All he’d done was watch a little too intently while Ainsley shod horses with no shirt on. But leave he had. He had no trade, no skills, and the new world of the Americas was said to be the land of opportunity, of adventure. And he was looking for _something_ , he just wasn’t quite sure what.

But he’d been shipwrecked on the way, and survived that only to be beaten and abandoned by the other settlers on the wagon train once they decided he was ‘unnatural’. That he looked too long at other men as they dressed, and, admittedly, stumbled across the women bathing naked in the lake. He’d liked Ida best of all, with her long golden hair, as they’d bounced over arid stretches of nothingness, but she’d just watched him crumple to a bloody mess then turned away like the others.

‘I hope they all burn in hell,’ he told the fire.

A growl cut through the air and he cowered, pulled into himself until he was as small as he could be, his overcoat stretched by his side on the rocks drying.

‘I'm better off on my own,’ he whispered, muffled against his arm.

Except he wasn’t alone. And he wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

Lost and hungry, he’d wandered the plains till time became meaningless. Had planned to keep going west, still find a new start and maybe gold. But the West was meant to be deserts and endless ocean, and all he’d found were vast valleys with raging rivers, thick forests, then dusty mountains that were turning white. A hard winter hitting early. The icy sun blindingly bright even as the world froze and his battered hat was left behind in the mud.

And he would have perished, had the pack of wolves not tracked him while they hunted beneath the stars, beneath the watchful moon.

He’d expected the relief of death, ripped apart by their fangs. They’d circled him, and advanced, snarling, only to turn on each other with ear-piercing howls and tear with powerful jaws till, bloody, all but one had backed away.

The alpha male that led the pack, Isaac assumed, given its size and dominance.

And he’d brought Isaac food. Led him to water. Watched over him while he slept. And now, finally, brought him to their den, a cave at the base of a vast mountain.

‘Saving me for a late supper before you sleep? To break your fast come sunset? Or for when times get hard?’ he whispered, knowing he would get no answer.

Across the cave, they lay, great furry mounds. Some curled together and groomed each other, some kept a wary eye on their rivals. Growing cubs nursed on their mothers’ teats and yapped as they wrestled. It was, he supposed, just like a colony of humans. So what did that make him amongst them? A runt, an outcast, as always. He’d be dead before winter was out, so what did it matter? He’d thought the Northern winters back home in Yorkshire were cold, but they were nothing compared to this.

Chin propped on the back of his hands, he considered sleep. Would he wake again? Or would they eat him? Perhaps leave him to freeze and starve? Did it even matter? He’d almost gone up to the servant’s quarters back at his parents’ manor, where there were beams that would take a rope, so each day here was just a bonus.

Huddled in his corner, he stayed out of their way, and they stayed away from the fire, throwing across wary looks that diminished as the dim light of day crept in and they grew accustomed to his presence. In the massive, cavernous space, their eyes shone, spots of light like chunks of gold in the darkness when they bothered to glance his way.

But he still felt that he was being watched. Could the other settlers, those self-righteous prigs, have followed him? No. No, they would have carried on without him, left him behind to die.

He pushed lank strands of his too-long hair, still burnished from the chilled sun, behind his ear and dared to glance around the cave.

And there, watching him, was Samson, as Isaac thought of him. Had named him after the strongest man in the Bible, a book which had been burned into Isaac’s flesh as a child but which he tried not to dwell on anymore. The biggest wolf, the one who’d fought over him and brought him shredded raw meat which Isaac ate in desperation with bloodied hands.

He was so _big_ , his fur fading from black to grey to white. His eyes the colour of amber trapped forever in trees. And when he growled, his teeth showed, long, pointed, and white as the snow.

Though right at that moment he just stood and stared, his scrutiny more intent than any gaze Isaac had ever been under, and he felt exposed, stripped down to his bones.

‘Greetings!’ Isaac called, feeling as awkward as he had with the young men and women back home, as Samson padded closer. ‘We were never formally introduced. I’m Isaac, Isaac Jeremiah Latham, though I barely remember my own name, no one ever calls me it now.’ Even back on the trail he’d lived mostly in ignored silence. ‘Would you mind if I call you Samson? No, no of course you wouldn’t mind. So long as my voice is pleasant, my words mean nothing to you.’

Isaac unfurled his legs to turn and face him, and the wolf tensed, attuned to each movement Isaac made. But, unlike the others, Samson didn’t even glance at the fire, seemed indifferent to it. But to Isaac he gave his full and endlessly watchful attention.

Isaac held up his hands in placating surrender, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. ‘Easy boy, I know who's in charge here.’

Bigger than Isaac, with a thickly muscled flank and torn ear, Samson looked like the battle-weary warrior Isaac knew he could never be himself. A sickly child, he’d barely made it this far, and his dreams of being a ranch hand or an outlaw in the untamed West had already proven to be starkly foolish. On the hard journey, he had not taken well to shooting or riding, and even amongst those running from one world to another he was an outsider. He’d watched the natives with envy, even as their world shrank, at least they knew who they were and where they belonged. But Samson was energy, was strength, was _life_.

‘I meant to say thank you. I don’t know why you did it, I have nothing to give. I have no food, no money anymore, and I’m not much of a fighter. All I can give you is my gratitude.’

In the background, other members of the pack snuffled in their sleep, and outside the wind howled like the whole world was nothing but wolves.

Emboldened by Samson’s stillness, Isaac crawled towards him and came to kneel at his side. Slow and tentative, he reached out and touched Samson’s neck. The fur was warm under his fingers, the bristles surprisingly strong.

Samson turned his head to him, and bared his teeth with a low growl. But it just seemed a warning, not a threat, and Isaac kept going. Stroked down the length of his back, heartbeat strong under his palm, breaths rhythmic. Shuffling along the ground he ran his hand down Samson’s bushy tail, stilling it for a moment from wagging, felt over the dark shape a little way down it and received a deeper growl as Samson squirmed away. ‘My apologies,’ Isaac said and returned to the relative safety of petting thick corded neck and broad back.

‘Good boy,’ he murmured, though he felt like the boy, small against the enormity of such strength. ‘You really are beautiful.’ He laughed as he stroked. ‘Is that the correct word? Handsome perhaps? Yes, handsome. Noble.’

And as Isaac moved his hand over muscles that almost vibrated, hummed, Samson rumbled low in pleasure, and Isaac leaned close, basking in his heat, freckled skin lost in the luxurious pelt.

‘You like that? It’s some time since I last touched anyone. Back on the voyage here, the sailors, they taught me things. They showed me how to –’ he broke off and laughed. ‘I shouldn't talk about such things. Though, who would you tell?’ But he pulled away, sat back on his haunches.

Samson growled again from deep in his chest. He pushed at Isaac with his snout, sniffing in his scent, nose damp and cold. Licked over Isaac’s stubble, tongue rough and wet. Pushed his cheek, his chest hard against Isaac, rubbing over him.

Laughing, Isaac fell back onto the hard stone ground, cushioned a little by the moss. Samson stood over him, licking his face, hot breath a rich, meaty smell.

Isaac pushed his head into the moss, arching his back for Samson to work his tongue over his throat, still laughing. It felt good to laugh, to relax.

‘I don’t think anyone has ever touched me without duty, whiskey, or money being the cause,’ he managed to say as controlled power lapped at him, ‘No one ever –’

He gasped in pain as sharp teeth scratched his chest, tore his shirt, the only clothes he had left. He pushed his hand against Samson, but may as well have been trying to hold back the tide for all the good it did.

‘ _No, I just –!_ ’ he shouted as Samson clawed at him, pushed him over onto his belly, a solid paw against his back. He scrambled to his knees, fingers grabbing at slippery moss, at rock, rough and jagged, scraping his skin. But Samson was on him, claws slicing as he pawed at Isaac’s back. Growling as he reared forward, rutting against tattered trousers.

A hardness against his tailbone and hot breath snarling at his neck, and Isaac realised, realised what he was good for, what Samson was trying to do.

Isaac managed to turn beneath the heavy weight, and with all his strength slapped Samson’s nose.

With a whine, the wolf pulled back, pawing at his snout, then lunged forward in rage with a snarl, mouth open wide showing saliva dripping fangs and the pink of his gums, his face crinkling into deep lines as his eyes narrowed.

At the terrifying sight, Isaac clawed his way backwards, scrabbling, held up one hand, palm facing forward, said, ‘Please! Not like that!’

And, tense as a stone statue in the town squares back home, Samson stilled, didn’t advance, watched, his fur still bristled and ears pricked to attention.

Isaac had always known there are moments in life that show us who we really are. Moments when, deep down, we know we’re deciding our fate. And Isaac knew this was one such moment as he pulled his saddle bag towards himself with trembling hands, rooting around in it for the jar of goose fat he’d managed to buy at a market before they’d left the growing settlements behind. He’d thought the old woman behind the stall would guess why he wanted it, but of course she hadn’t, or had hidden it well.

Not letting himself think, he pulled off his torn shirt, his trousers, his boots, the long johns that were meant to keep him warm but never did. His bones prominent beneath the parchment of his skin, the record of his journey lay scrawled over it in fading scrapes and bruises.

And Samson just watched, head cocked to one side.

Spreading his clothes out on the cold, hard ground, Isaac lay on them, looking up at the distant, pointed formations of rock poking down from the shadows of the cave’s highest reaches. Foul smelling fat softening on his fingers, he bent his knees and let his thighs fall apart, reached down between them and worked himself open. This he’d done before: drunken sailors passing him between them on board ship and not even looking at him afterwards. Bored, dead-eyed whores in taverns. Alone, in beds, in bunks, on floorboards even. All unfulfilling, leaving him feeling more alone, but still a burst of ecstasy and he had learnt. And really, was this so different?

‘Just give me some time,’ he murmured while he did it, Samson’s steady breaths and low growls heavy in the air as he snuffled and licked at the jar then paced. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt me. Well, perhaps I don’t, but ’tis better than dying alone in the snow.’

Then, ‘I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,’ he said, head down and gaze lowered as he crawled over to Samson, who stood, watchful and alert between him and the other wolves. Growls growing louder as he waited, edged with a frustration Isaac wasn’t sure if he just imagined.

One hand laid against Samson’s side, he reached the other beneath, goose pimples springing up along his arms. Samson planted his paws more firmly on the ground as Isaac touched him, found his heavy sack, found the solid length of him, slid him free from his sheath. Explored with fingers and tongue, tasted fur and skin, dry and musky. Looking too tender red, it dripped into his mouth, already spurting a clear liquid.

With a whine, Samson turned, pushing at Isaac with his nose, with far more strength than Isaac could have resisted even if he tried.

He let himself be pushed onto all fours, ‘ _Oh god_ ,’ he murmured as Samson mounted him, forelegs around his hips, rutting against him till Isaac reached back and helped him start to push inside. All Isaac had time to do was gasp.

It was all too fast after that, the quick pistoning of hips behind him, claws scratching at his flank, hot warmth of fur flush against his back. And the hardness inside him getting bigger, engorging, as Isaac scrambled at the ground, eyes widening before he shut them tight. ‘ _It hurts!_ ’ he gasped out, but there was no way to stop it and he grasped at handfuls of moss and his nails broke against stone, the ground cutting into him. ‘ _Too thick_ …’ And his nose ran as unshed tears stung his eyes and clumped together his lashes.

But he fell forward onto his elbows with a grunt, and the new angle brought with it an intensity that made his toes curl. Hit that sweet spot inside they’d found on board the ship. He bit down on his forearm to quiet his moans.

‘ _Oh god_ ,’ he gasped when he couldn’t take it anymore, rising up to place his weight on one hand while he arched his back downwards and spit into his other palm. Fumbled beneath himself, achingly sensitive, smoothing back his foreskin. Totally lost in a way he hadn’t been before, wandering the wilderness.

With a snarl, Samson took the back of Isaac’s neck in his jaw, sharp points pricking his skin. And still Samson thrust into him, hard and fast.

And, for a moment, Isaac wondered if this was the end.

And, for a moment, he didn’t care.

Sobbing as he pushed into his own hand, wet and sticky, tipping over the edge and falling, falling, falling. He cried out, too loud in the vast silence, receiving low howls in return.

But he couldn’t stop touching himself, still so heavy and full it hurt.

He didn’t even realize Samson had stilled, fur sticking to his sweat-slick body, till he felt the hardness inside him growing impossibly bigger, swelling into a lump. The agony of it cut through him as his body stretched, the pressure of it.

Panicking, he tried to pull away, but with a warning growl Samson held him still.

And Isaac felt it, felt the hot pulsing liquid still filling him up.

‘ _Oh god_ ,’ he whispered again, while Samson’s leg swept over his back, and, staying inside him, he turned so they were joined, tied together, rear to rear. ‘ _Oh god, I’m being bred._ ’

Bred like the mongrels he’d seen wandering the streets, like the cattle of the great plains.

He pressed his hand to his belly, while his guts filled with pulse after pulse of Samson’s seed. Knew that, if it were possible, Samson would leave cubs growing inside him. But he reached back, reached back and helped keep Samson inside. Anything was better than going back to being hollow and empty.

The rest of the world barely felt real anymore. Just a backdrop to the overwhelming tide of being _taken_. Distantly, he heard the soft padding of others approaching from the pack, heard Samson growl and snarl till they backed away. Glanced over and saw them, heads lowered, ears flat to their heads. Barnabas and Salome he had named them out in the wilds while they glared at him. He avoided meeting their eyes.

All that mattered was his own body contracting rhythmically around the hard weight inside it.

There was no way back from this. From whatever he was now.

Afterwards, after Samson softened and slid out, licked and sniffed at Isaac’s hole, lapped at himself, Isaac flopped, boneless onto his back, still trembling. And Samson stood over him, tongue lolling out as he panted, raised a leg and released a stream of acrid urine, the stench covering Isaac as the yellow warmth of it washed over his body, ran into his eyes, his mouth, bitter as he spluttered, stinging as it hit his fresh cuts.

‘Marking your territory?’ Isaac murmured when it stopped and he wiped his eyes, a hysterical laugh bubbling out of him. ‘I suspect we all already know to whom I now belong.’

And Samson threw back his head and howled, the long line of his throat towering over Isaac more than the mountain had, the piercing sound echoing through the cave. The rest of the pack half-heartedly howled back, or whined and murmured their displeasure, but left them be.

Pulling his filthy shirt from beneath himself, Isaac started to wipe his face, the sparse hair of his chest, the valley between his ribs, till Samson growled and snatched it away, the cotton ripping in his teeth.

And the cold crept over Isaac, but was not why he shook.

Probing tentative fingers between his legs, Isaac felt himself gaping open, felt the wetness running down his thighs. He looked at his hand in the flickering light of the dying fire, found it coated in sticky, milky white, with traces of his own blood and shit. But he just felt sore, not badly injured. Come nightfall when the wolves left the cave to hunt, he would clean himself, empty himself out at the nearby stream. He didn’t expect to go far.

Samson licked clean his hand, licked his face, his lips, his body, tongue of etched velvet, then with a contented whine stretched out over him. Covered him, warmed him through. Longer than Isaac, he lay his head on Isaac’s chest, nuzzled against him, tongue lapping still, rough and wet against Isaac’s nipple. He gasped, held Samson still, stroked thick, warm fur that stuck to his well-claimed body.

Murmured disjointed, half-meant words, ‘– so good –’ voice soft, ‘– so warm –’ coaxing, ‘– not going anywhere –’

Watched Samson drift into sleep, watched his eyes flicker behind their lids, paws scrabbling as he dreamed.

And, as shadows took over, bright white snow that blocked out the frigid sun blew with a shriek through the cave’s opening, and Isaac let himself drift too.

Whatever he’d been searching for, he’d found, and whatever happened next there was no going back.

**_The End_**


End file.
